Page 70 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
He was gone before they could protest, crossing the courtyard with the focused intensity of a hunter tracking prey.
Baird’s apothecary.That’s where she’ll be.
Ian found her exactly where he’d expected – standing on a precarious wooden stool that looked like it had been crafted during the reign of Robert the Bruce himself, stretching toward the highest shelf in Baird’s cluttered workspace for a particular ceramic jar that sat just beyond her fingertips, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration, completely oblivious to the way the ancient stool swayed beneath her weight.
The sight of her made something clench in his chest. She’d changed from the formal gown she’d worn to meet his guests into a simpler dress of deep blue wool that made her eyes look like the lochs under a summer sky. Her red hair had been braided back with practical efficiency, though rebellious tendrils had already escaped to frame her face in copper fire.
Beautiful.
Not beautiful in Olivia’s gentle, refined way, but with the wild beauty of a Highland storm – fierce and untamed and utterly captivating.
“Need help?”
Rhona startled violently. The stool wobbled beneath her like a ship through rough seas. “Blessed saints! Ye nearly stopped me heart!”
“Sorry.” He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with deliberate finality. The click of the latch seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. “Maybe ye should think twice before climbin’ on furniture older than the Bruce himself.”
“’Tis perfectly–”
Crack!The ancient wood gave way with a sound like bones breaking. Rhona pitched forward with a cry of alarm, ceramic tumbling from above.
Ian moved instinctually. Two strides carried him across the small room and he caught her against his chest just as the stool collapsed, the jar shattering behind them in a cloud of pungent valerian root that filled the air around them with the scent of earth.
For a single heartbeat that felt like it stretched into eternity, they simply stared at each other. Rhona was pressed fully against him now, her hands splayed across his chest and her face tilted up toward his. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse through the wool of her dress, and he could clearly see his own reflection in those wide eyes.
This is what I want more than anythin’.
Not the careful politeness of his interactions with Olivia. Not the calculated conversations with council members or the strategic planning with his warriors. This – the titillating awareness that sparked between them like flint against steel, the way herpresence seemed to fill all the empty spaces inside him he never even realized existed.
“That was…”
“Stupid.” Ian finished roughly, though he made no move to release her. “Ye could’ve been hurt, lass.”
“I’m fine.” But she didn’t step away either. Her hands remained pressed against his chest, and he wondered if she could feel the thundering of his heart beneath her palms. “Just embarrassed.”
“Just?” His lips twitched despite the tension thrumming between them. “Ye destroyed half of Baird’s stores!”
“I did nae!” Her cheeks flushed pink like roses blooming in snow. “That stool was clearly defective.”
“Och, clearly.” His arms were still around her waist, and he could feel her warmth seeping through the layers of wool and linen that separated them. “Nex time, ask fer help, aye?”
“I dinnae need any help.” That stubborn chin lifted in the same gesture that he was coming to know so well. “I’m perfectly capable–”
“Of destroyin’ things and nearly breakin’ yer own neck in the process?” He finally forced himself to step back, though every instinct urged him to pull her closer instead. “Aye, very capable indeed.”
The loss of contact changed the atmosphere between, and suddenly it felt cold and empty, charged with unspoken possibilities and dangerous desires.
Rhona flushed deeper, brushing at her skirts with unnecessary vigor. “Thank ye. Fer catchin’ me.”
“Always.” The promise slipped out before he could stop it, carrying more weight than he’d intended. Ian bent to gather the larger ceramic shards, using the mundane task as an excuse to study her face. “What was worth such… dramatic efforts?”
“Chamomile. Fer sleepin’ draughts.”
“Are ye still havin’ trouble sleepin’ then, lass?” He straightened, depositing the broken pieces on Baird’s worktable.
Something flickered across her features – too quick to identify but carrying shadows he recognized all too well. “Nae more than usual.”
He immediately recognized the lie. Ian had walked the halls of Castle Wallace late at night to hear the echoes of her distress, the broken words that escaped her dreams to haunt the castle corridors. He knew she was still fighting battles he couldn’t protect her from, still reliving horrors that had nothing to do with him but everything to do with what his clan had put her through.
